I loved my father very much. No one took it as hard as I did when he died. My mother was more concerned about how we were going to survive without his income, she never really cared about my dad; not from what I remember anyway.
I had just turned 14 when he passed. I remember him so vividly, as if he was still here. On the weekends, we would go to the beach and fly our handmade kites. He taught me how to make and fly them. My mother hated it when he would teach me something she claims is only meant for boys.
Now there are no more kites.
"It's not ladylike," she would say. They would argue all the time, but she stayed with him regardless. My mother would always put me in beauty pageants and modeling competitions. For as long as I can remember, the smell of burning hair and hairspray stayed pungent in my nose. So, father would come home from his business trips and yell at her for hours. He'd say things like:
"You're exploiting our child to perverts!" and "She needs to lead a normal life!"
Then, a day after my birthday, we saw on the news that his plane had gone down. Forty-eight dead, only three survived with injuries. He was on his way home to try to make it for my birthday, with a gift for me. I never knew what the gift was; it perished in the crash. Nothing felt the same again after that. I wanted to die and be with him. I wonder what my father would say if he knew what mother did just to help us "survive" as she puts it. I always knew she was selfish, but I never thought she was capable of doing it.
I have never told anyone. How can I? There's no one to tell; mother has cut me off from the world, friends, a social life. I know why she does it, I'm not stupid.
But I desperately want to tell someone.
"Here," I hand him my hair tie. His eyes are the deepest blue I have ever seen. I investigate them and feel as though I've known him my whole life. I may not have shown it, but he made my heart race. His long, slick and straight, black hair was disheveled, and I noticed him trying to put it up in a bun without a hair tie.
"Thank you," he replied, and my heart leaped; I thought I would faint. Jenna said he was handsome, but it was something about the way he looked at me that made me lose my footing. I've met quite a few handsome men in my life, but none moved me the way he does. His slender nose meets perfectly with his lips and compliments his cheekbones. He is toned, and well kept. I look at his hands a lot when he's not looking. At least I hope he hasn't noticed.
He can see through me, like a glass cup. As he did the retouch of my make up, I felt a tenuous tingle in between my legs I never thought I'd feel. Not after what happened. He looks into my eyes as if he is trying to find out my secrets.
Typical job of a photographer. I tell myself and yet...
"Look up," he lightly pats the powder under my eyes. I feel the tingling again.
Why am I feeling this?
After that, I knew I wanted to tell him. I knew he would listen, and maybe help me. If becoming a model is a way to claim my independence once and for all, I'll do it. I told him to put off everything for as long as he could so that I could convince mother to leave me alone with him. She's always sticking around, it's so annoying.
He would tell her that the pictures were not satisfactory and had to be done in a controlled environment, like his studio. Mother was not convinced and insisted he use the pictures from the shoot. She's so impatient and overconfident that I'll get picked up so quickly, that it worked sooner than I thought.
Three weeks later our chauffeur Mark drove us to Jacques' apartment. Mother demanded I wear lingerie without telling me why. Bringing back those memories...
"Jacque Ramos is the most sought-after photographer in the industry, you can convince him that you are more than capable of becoming a model," mother paused and looked me over, "you will be a great model." I stared at her blankly, as I always did.
Mother assumed Jacque was like the rest of them. Always looking to get their kicks from screwing pretty girls. She knew Jacque wouldn't budge unless she offered me to him. It isn't the first time, I'm not surprised. But I knew he would help me. I felt in my heart that this was the right thing to do.
I desperately want to tell him. That's why I asked him to do this.
"I was 15 when I was raped."
He looks at me, not with eyes that pity me. If he did, I would have walked away. Instead, his eyes are wide, mouth slightly agape. As if someone had stolen something from him. We look at each other, standing in the middle of the sidewalk like statues. Finally, his shocked gaze looks calmer, and he offers his hand back out to me.
"Let's go inside," he says it so calmly, I start to get mad.
"Didn't you hear me?" I ask, a little annoyed. He closes his eyes and turns slightly right while facing down.
"I just don't want you to tell me out here," he says with a tinge of pain in his voice. I clench my fists close to my thighs and start walking up the stairs by myself. As we reach the top, he unlocks his door and allows me inside first. I walk in as if it is my first time here. Jacque wraps his arms around me and kisses my cheek softly.
"Let's sit down, okay?" he says gently. I hesitate to move at all. I still can't believe I finally said it after all these years. Jacque got some plush pillows from his bedroom and transferred them to the couch. He sits down and pats the seat beside him. I walk over to him and sit down, resting my head against his broad shoulder. Tingling feeling comes back, and I move away.
"You want me to sit on a chair across from you?" he asks. I shake my head, too embarrassed to tell him the truth. We sit in silence for a few moments, him caressing my arms; me staring off into space.
"You can tell me, Natalie," he says softly, "Little by little." Right, that's exactly why I asked him to delay the pictures, so that mother would be convinced that he needed to do it his way. So we could be alone. I'm so afraid that this is my only chance. I start to form the words; words I have not rehearsed or practiced in my imagination.
"I don't know where to begin," I say lowly. He reaches over to my back now, softly rubbing it, making me tremble.
"Little by little, there's no rush, it's just us two and we have," he looks at his watch, "three hours before your mother comes to get you."
"As I said, I was raped when I was 15," I repeat, "by a man that said he could help my mother find a new rich husband. He's an old friend of the family." My hands start to shake, and my eyes are welling up with tears. Jacque holds my hands and somehow, it calms me down. He stays silent, waiting for me to speak.
"She fought him at first, showing loyalty to her family, but then the money ran out quicker than she expected," I look over at him as I say this, and am now getting irritated with myself for not saying it straight like I had planned. "Then, about a year after father died, and the money was basically gone, this man said the only way he would help her is if she made an even trade." I glance over at Jacque and his eyes intensified with anger, so I hold his hand atop mine.
"What was his name?" Jacque asks coolly. I shutter after hearing his deep voice, afraid that he plans to do something about the man who raped me.
"I can't," I tell him, "I need to tell you this in its entirety. I've never told anyone." He puts a hand to his chin and gives me a satisfying nod.
"Continue," he says more gently.
"Mother did my makeup and hair and didn't seem bothered by his request. She was so casual about it, like it's the natural thing to do," I lower my gaze to the floor, remembering it in detail, "I was almost fully grown at the time, I had a suspicion she was up to something, but never thought it would..." I start to choke on my own words, and he pulls me into his embrace. "Mother said she was getting me ready for an audition of some kind, but it was late at night. I thought it was so strange. The man's driver picked me up, drove me to his house and..."
"It's okay," Jacque begins to say before I can continue, "if it's too much for you-"
"No!" I interrupt, "I need to tell someone!" He slightly nods to me and rests his hands on my lap. "When I got there, I thought I was doing a private audition or something, so when he offered me a drink, I didn't think about it."
"Jesus! Did he spike your drink?!" I nod as I close my eyes in disgust. "That sick, twisted-" I put my fingers to his lips.
"Please," I beg, "Let me finish, this isn't as easy as you may think." He calms his eyes filled with rage and tries to relax in his seat.
"I knew after a few minutes what was going to happen, I was dizzy and disoriented, but I knew. I never screamed so hard in my life. The terror of knowing no one would come to save me overwhelmed my will to fight back." I finally let the tears fall and he grabs me and holds me tightly. The last person to hug me like this was my father.
"You asked why I'm a good kisser?" I ask softly so as not to insult him, and he nods. "My mother used me as a means of getting what she said we needed. I eventually became numb to it. It wasn't until I finally turned eighteen that she met my step- father and remarried. She would always say, as soon as I find a good man to take care of us, we won't need to do this. But she still does it, she wants me to marry that billionaire, so her future is secure, not my happiness." Jacque gently grabs my head and kisses my forehead.
"I won't let that happen," he says, "We won't let her." He gets up from his seat on the couch and looks out his window, contemplating with his slender fingers tapping against his lips. "I'm going to make sure they pay for what they've done to you. We start by submitting these photos to Alice."
"Who's Alice?"
"Alice is a dear old friend who owes me quite a few. You'll get your independence sooner than you imagined; I promise."
For the first time since before my father passed, I feel like I have a knight in shining armor.